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presented  to  the 

IJBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIF.GO 

by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIliUARY 


Ward  L.    Thornton 

donor 


^ 


SARAH    PLATT    DECKER 


'B^^maz 


^^ 


(?8S 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arclnive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/favoritepoemsofsOOdeckiala 


(Sift  pratttba 

from  tift  toAt  of 

tl;tB  baohlst  wiU  gn  to  ti;» 

and  Hb  tmbliration  ia 

aittI|oiizrit  bg  tl^ 

AaoarlalUin 


COFYSIGHTRD 

1912 

BY  BLUS  MEREDITH 

DENVER 


Smith-Brooks  Press,  Denrer,  Colo. 


By  ELLIS  MEREDITH 

XN  the  death  of  Sarah  Piatt 
Decker  the  United  States 
loses  its  foremost  and  best- 
beloved  woman.  There  are  many 
women  who  are  great  in  one  line; 
there  are  but  few  who  are  great  in 
many  lines,  so  really  great  that  they 
are  above  all  littleness  of  vanity  and 
conceit,  but  this  was  true  of  her.  |^ , 
^  All  her  life  she  had  lived  upon  a 
plane  where  noblesse  oblige  was  the 
strong  underlying  and  impelling 
law,  and  but  few  of  England's  mon- 
archs  have  been  so  well  entitled  to 
wear  their  Anglo-Saxon  motto,  "Ich 
Dien."  She  did  serve  all  her  Hfe, 
up  to  the  very  end,  and  this  is  as  she 
would  have  had  it. 

Her  father,  Deacon  Edwin  Chase 
of  Holyoke,  Mass.,  was  a  great  man 
in  his  day,  a  great  speaker  and  a 
great  counsellor,  having  served  the 
governor  of  his  state  in  that  capac- 
ity. He  had  the  same  wit,  the 
same  ability  to  see  straight  through 
all  sham,  and  the  same  courage  to 
take  a  stand  and  abide  by  it;  she 
was  her  father's  daughter,  and  while 
he  did  not  live  to  see  all  the  honors 


that  were  to  be  hers,  he  lived  long 
enough  to  know  that  the  traditions  of 
his  own  family,  and  that  of  her 
mother,  who  was  an  Adams,  would 
be  preserved  by  her. 

While  she  was  yet  a  very  young 
woman,  after  two  years  of  married 
life,  she  was  left  a  widow,  and  she 
has  told  me  how  the  table  linen  and 
silver  that  had  been  given  her  by  her 
mother  were  divided,  and  she  was 
given  the  "widow's  third,"  her  dower 
right  in  her  own  wedding  presents. 
It  was  this  that  made  a  suffragist  of 
her  in  the  dawn  of  her  life.  In  her 
sorrow  and  bereavement  she  did  not 
sit  down  and  brood.  There  was 
work  to  be  done,  and  she  did  her 
share.  She  was  one  of  three  trus- 
tees who  administered  a  fund  for  the 
relief  of  the  poor,  which  had  been 
left  to  the  city  of  Holyoke  by  a  rich 
old  man  named  Whiting  Street,  and 
this  experience  taught  her  much  of 
human  nature  and  the  need  to  bal- 
ance a  soft  heart  with  a  sound  head. 
Later,  after  her  marriage  to  Colonel 
Piatt,  while  living  at  Queens,  Long 
Island,  she  was  one  of  the  directors 
of  the  Mineola  Children's  home, 
and  while  she  has  not  been  particu- 
larly identified  with  work  for  chil- 
dren   in    this    city,    her    love      for 


children  has  always  been  one  of  the 
strongest  factors  in  her  Hfe,  and 
nothing  has  brought  her  greater  joy 
than  the  love  of  Httle  children. 

Not  long  since  she  was  giving  me 
a  few  items  about  her  hfe  for  a 
magazine  article,  and  after  she  had 
told  me  a  great  Ust  of  organizations 
of  which  she  was  a  member,  and 
years  of  service  for  this  and  that 
cause,  she  said  rather  wistfully, 
"Couldn't  you  say  something  about 
me  as  a  grandmother?  You  don't 
know  my  daughter  Florence,  but  ^ 
she  is  a  lovely  woman,  and  there  is 
nothing  in  my  life  that  I  enjoy  more 
than  the  Sunday  evenings  I  spend 
with  her  and  her  children." 

The  first  great  public  work  in 
which  she  took  part  in  Denver  was 
the  relief  of  those  who  were  left 
penniless  in  1 893 ;  the  next  year  the 
Woman's  Club  was  organized,  and 
she  was  made  its  president.  In  1 897 
Governor  Adams  appointed  her  on 
the  board  of  charities  and  correc- 
tions. When  the  volunteers  of  the 
Spanish-American  war  went  through 
this  city,  she  was  one  of  those  who 
added  to  their  comfort  in  various 
ways.  When  the  earthquake  vic- 
tims from  San  Francisco  came  into 
Denver  without  clothes  or  money. 


"^     ^IRIf 


hungry,  nerve-shaken  and  destitute, 
this  royal  woman  did  not  content 
herself  with  heading  a  subscription. 
She  went  to  the  union  depot  and 
worked  and  comforted  and  coun- 
selled. 

When  she  was  elected  president 
of  the  General  Federation  at  St. 
Louis  in  1904,  some  of  her  friends 
urged  her  not  to  speak  for  equal 
suffrage,  which  was  then  as  it  now 
is,  a  burning  question  in  the  Federa- 
,  J  tion,  but  she  felt  that  she  wished  the 
women  in  the  Federation  to  under- 
stand exactly  her  position  before 
they  chose  her  to  be  their  leader. 
She  made  a  great  speech,  and  she 
was  elected  by  a  rousing  majority. 

She  had  many  and  great  gifts, 
but  I  think  the  rarest  and  the  great- 
est was  her  splendid  common  sense. 
It  shone  through  all  that  she  wrote, 
and  she  wrote  a  great  deal,  and  it 
was  this  that  made  her  the  most 
popular  of  all  our  women  speakers. 
Without  pretense  she  spoke  plainly 
and  simply,  and  while  she  appealed 
to  our  hearts  she  appealed  to  sound 
judgment  at  the  same  time.  Her 
life  has  been  short  in  years,  but  long 
in  deeds,  and  she  has  left  this  phase 
of  it  crowned  in  glory  and  honor. 
Our  loss  is  irreparable,  but  those  of 


us  who  loved,  and  love  her  still,  will 
never  cease  to  be  glad  that  it  was 
our  privilege  to  walk  with  her  a  Httle 
way,  although  without  her  it  is  hard 
indeed  for  us  to  live  up  to  her  brave 
and  cheery  motto,  "Never  frown, 
never  sigh,  and  keep  step." 

XJ     XJ 

The  verses  in  this  book  are  from  a 
number  she  had  cut  out  and  saved, 
some  of  them  for  many  years.  They 
are  "not  from  the  grand  old  mas- 
ters," but  stray  poems  that  spoke  to 
her  heart  and  voiced  some  feeling 
there.  Where  possible  to  learn  the 
author,  credit  has  been  given  and 
permission  asked  to  rqjublish  the 
poems,  but  most  of  them  appeared 
anonymously,  and  some  of  them 
many  years  ago.  It  is  believed  that 
they  will  be  read  with  pleasure  for 
their  own  beauty  as  well  as  because 
they  speak  to  us  of  her. 

The  poem  "Beyond,"  by  Mrs. 
Wilcox,  is  reprinted  by  permission  of 
her  publishers,  the  W.  B.  Conkey 
Company ;  a  n  d  James  Whitcomb 
Riley's  poem  "Away,"  from  the 
book  called  "Afterwhiles,"  appears 
by  permission  of  the  Bobbs-Merrill 
Company. 


The  first  poem  is  one  that  I  once 
told  her  seemed  to  be  peculiarly  her 
own;  the  second,  "How  Did  You 
Die?"  hung  on  the  wall  of  her  sitting 
room.  In  this  group  are  several 
others  that  speak  of  the  strict  ideal 
she  set  for  herself. 

In  the  second  group  are  those  that 
show  her  attitude  toward  humanity. 
The  third  gives  a  glimpse  of  that 
strong  and  abiding  trust  in  God  that 
was,  I  think,  the  source  of  her  great 
and  unfailing  strength,  on  which  so 
many  of  us  have  leaned  in  years  past. 
And  last  are  some  rather  remarkable 
verses  that  voice  the  triumphant  cer- 
tainty that  death  indeed  is  swallowed 
up  in  victory  and  that  Christ  is  the 
Lord  of  the  lord  of  Death. 


joco^^o 


I. 


PIRITS  of  old  that  bore  me 
And  set  me  meek  of  mind, 
Between  great  deeds  before 
me, 
And  deeds  as  great  behind. 

Knowing  humanity  my  star. 

As  forth  of  old  I  ride. 
Oh,  let  me  wear  with  every  scar 

Honor  at  eventide. 

Forethought  and  recollection 

Rivet  mine  armor  gay. 
The  passion  for  perfection 

Redeem  my  falling  way. 

Oh,  give  my  youth,  my  faith,  my 
sword 

Choice  of  my  heart's  desire, 
A  short  life  in  the  saddle.  Lord, 

Not  long  life  by  the  fire. 


OID   you    tackle    that   trouble 
that  came  your  way 
With  a  resolute  heart  and 
cheerful. 
Or  hide  your  face  from  the  light  of 
day 
With  a  craven  soul  and  fearful? 


irn 


^i;      -im^^mm^—^r 


y 


Oh,  a  trouble's  a  ton,  or  a  trouble's 

an  ounce. 

Or  a  trouble  is  what  you  make  it. 

And  it  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  hurt 

that  counts; 

But  only — how  did  you  take  it? 

You   are  beaten   to   earth?     Well, 
well,  what's  that? 
Come  up  with  a  smiling  face. 
It's  nothing  against  you  to  fall  down 
flat. 
But  to  lie  there — that's  disgrace. 
The  harder  you're  thrown,  why  the 
higher  you  bounce; 
Be  proud  of  your  blackened  eye! 
It  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  licked 
that  counts; 
It's    how    did    you    fight  —  and 
why? 

And  though  you  be  done  to  death, 
what  then? 
If  you  battled  the  best  you  could. 
If  you  played  your  part  in  the  world 
of  men. 
Why  The  Critic  will  call  it  good. 
Death  comes  with  a  crawl,  or  comes 
with  a  pounce. 
And  whether  he's  slow  or  spry. 
It  isn't  the  fact  that  you're  dead  that 
counts. 
But  only — how  did  you  die? 

— Edmund  Vance  Cooke. 


o 


;o^^^o; 


NnblFfiBp  ©bltgf 


I 


F  I   am  weak  and  you  are 
strong. 

Why  then,  why  then, 
To  you  the  braver  deeds  belong ; 

And  so  again. 
If  you  have  gifts  and  I  have  none. 
If  I  have  shade  and  you  have  sun, 
'Tis  yours  with  freer  hand  to  live, 
'Tis  yours  with  truer  grace  to  give, 
^      Than  I,  who  gifdess,  sunless,  stand 
With  barren  life  and  hand. 


'Tis  wisdom's  law,  the  perfect  code 

By  love  inspired; 
Of  him  on  whom  much  is  bestowed 

Is  much  required. 
The  tuneful  throat  is  bid  to  sing. 
The    oak    must    reign    the    forest's 

king; 
The  rustling  stream  the  wheel  must 

move. 
The  beaten  steel  its  strength  must 

prove, 
'Tis  given  unto  the  eagle's  eyes 
To  face  the  mid-day  skies. 


to  %g  Strong 

'Tis  very  good  for  strength 
To  {(TioVf  that  some  one  needs  you  to  be 
strong. 

[OME  one  needs  you  to  be 
strong," 

Needs  you  in  the  fight- 
ing. 
Needs  the  comforts  of  your  song. 
Needs  your  aid  against  the  wrong. 
Needs  your  lamp  to  help  along 
In  the  dark  world's  lighting. 

"Some  one  needs  you  to  be  strong," 
Needs    your    heart    to    cheer 
them. 

Needs  the  guiding  of  your  hand 

To  the  better,  brighter  land. 

Shall  they  fail  in  their  demand? 
Wilt  thou  never  hear  them  ? 

"Some    one   needs   you."      O,    be 

strong. 

Strong  in  God's  own  beauty; 
Love  shall  make  your  labor  sweet. 
Go,  your  struggling  brother  meet; 
God  shall  make  your  footsteps  fleet. 

In  the  cause  of  duty. 

— M.  L.  Haskins. 


mg  Nnglfbor 


I?S9 


^Y    neighbor   met   me   in   the 
street 
She  dropped  a  word  of 
greeting  gay. 
Her   look   so    bright,    her   tone    so 
sweet, 
I  stepped  to  music  all  that  day. 

The  cares  that  tugged  at  heart  and 

brain,  »J 

O  The    work    too    heavy    for    my 

hand. 
The  ceaseless  undertone  of  pain. 
The   tasks    I    could    not   under- 
stand. 

Grew  lighter  as  I  walked  along 
With  air  and  step  of  liberty. 

Freed  by  the  sudden  hit  of  song. 
That  filled  the  world  with  cheer 
for  me. 

Yet  was  this  all?    A  woman  wise. 

Her  hfe  enriched  by  many  a  year. 

Had  faced  me  with  her  brave,  true 

eyes. 

Passed    on,    and    said,    "Good 

morning.  Dear!" 

— Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


3fi  3  ^^p^? 

XS  I  happy,  honey?    Sho! 
I's  too  busy,  chile,  ter  know. 
Got  ter  git  dis  washin'  out 
While  de  sun  am  lurkin*  'bout; 

Cook  de  dinner,  hoe  de  co'n. 
An'  ez  sho  ez  you's  done  bo'n 
Den  I'll  hab  ter  stop  agen 
Ter  whip  dat  pickaninny  Ben ; 

Git  de  goat  an'  chillun  fed. 
Count  *em  ez  dey  goes  ter  bed, 
Teachin'  manners  while  I  sews 
Patches  on  de  ole  man's  clo'es. 

^      Sakes  alive!     I's  hustlin'  so. 
*Clar'  ter  goodness  ef  I  know 
Ef  I's  happy  or  I  ain't; 
Got  no  time  ter  make  complaint. 

When  I's  nothin'  else  ter  do 
I'll  set  down  an'  think  it  thro', 
But  de  day  ter  think  an'  set — 
Lor' !  dat  day  ain't  got  hyah  yet. 


©E  strong ! 
We  are  not  here  to  play,  to 
dream,  to  drift; 
We   have   hard   work   to   do,   and 

loads  to  lift; 
Shun  not  the  struggle — face  it;  'tis 
God's  gift. 

Be  strong  ! 
Say  not  "The  days  are  evil.   Who's 
to  blame," 
^      And  fold  the  hands  and  acquiesce 
— oh,  shame! 
Stand  up,  speak  out,  and  bravely, 
in  God's  name. 

Be  strong  ! 
^      It  matters  not  how  deep  intrenched 
the  wrong. 
How  hard  the  battle  goes,  the  day 

how  long; 
Faint   not — fight    on.      Tomorrow 
comes  the  song. 

— Cora  M.  Eagtr, 


m 


ITj 

^Y^HAT  silence  we  keep   year 

\\y  after  year. 

With   those    who   are    most 
near  to  us  and  dear; 

We  live  beside  each  other  day  by 
day, 

And   speak  of   myriad   things,   but 
seldom  say 

The  full,  sweet  word  that  lies  just 
^  in  our  reach. 

Beneath  the  commonplace  of  com- 
mon speech. 

Then  out  of  sight  and  out  of  reach 

they  go — 

^      These   close,    familiar    friends   who 
'  q  loved  us  so ; 

And  sitting  in  the  shadow  they  have 

left. 
Alone  with  loneliness  and  sore  be- 
reft. 
We  think  with  vain  regret  of  some 

fond  word 
That  once  we  might  have  said  and 
they  have  heard. 

For  weak  and  poor  the  love  that  we 

expressed 
Now  seems  beside  the  vast  sweet  un- 

confessed ; 


And  slight  the  deeds  we  did  to 
those  undone, 

And  small  the  service  spent  to  treas- 
ure won. 

And  undeserved  the  praise  for  word 
and  deed. 

That  should  have  overflowed  the 
simple  need. 

This  is  the  cruel  cross  of  life  to  be 
Full-visioned  only  when  the  ministry 
Of  death  has  been  fulfilled,  and  in 

the  place 
g      Of  some  dear  presence  is  but  entity 

space. 
What  recollected  services  can  then 
Give  consolation- for  the  "might  have 

been?" 


A  Sngal  l^twct 


Q 


|AGGED,  uncomely,  and  old 
and  gray, 
A  woman  walked  in  a  north- 
em  town; 
And    through    the    crowd    as    she 
wound  her  way. 
One    saw    her    loiter,    and    then 

stoop  down. 
Putting   something   away   in   her 
old,  torn  gown. 


"You    are    hiding    a    jewel,"    the 

watcher  said. 
(Ah,  that  was  her  heart,  had  the 

truth  been  read)  ; 
"What  have  you  stolen?"  he  asked 

again. 
Then  the  dim  eyes  filled  with  a  sud- 
den pain; 
And  under  the  flickering  light  of  the 

gas. 
She  showed  him  her  gleaning.     "It's 

broken  glass," 
She  said.     "I  hae  lifted  it  up  frae 

the  street. 
To  be  oot  o*  the  road  o'  the  bair- 

nies*  feet 

Under  the  fluttering  rags  astir 

That  was  a  royal  heart  that  beat! 
Would  that  the  world  had  more  like 
her. 
Smoothing  the  road  for  the  bair- 
nies'  feet.        -willH.Ogilvie. 


i§pj^nxX\xn\\^ 


©HIS  I  beheld  or  dreamed  it 
in  a  dream; 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust 
along  the  plain. 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it 
raged 


A  furious  battle,   and  men  yelled. 

and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields. 

A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,   then  staggered   forward, 

hemmed  by  foes. 

A   craven   hung  along  the  battle's 

edge 
And  thought,  "Had  I  a  sword  of 

keener  steel — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son 
^  bears — but  this 

Blunt  thing!"  he  snapped  and  flung 

it  from  his  hand. 
And  lowering!  crept  away  and  left 

the  field. 


o 


Then  came  the  king's  son — ^wound- 
ed, sore  bestead 

And  weaponless  —  and  saw  the 
broken  sword. 

Hilt  buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden 
sand. 

And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with 
battle  shout 

Lifted  afresh,  he  hewed  the  enemy 
down. 

And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic 
day. 

—Edward  Rtwland  Sill. 


®I|e  »tif-ixikh 


QOW  open  the  gate   and  let 
her  in. 

And  fling  it  wide. 
For  she   hath  been   cleansed   from 
stain  of  sin," 

St.  Peter  cried. 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"Though  I  am  cleansed  from  stain 
of  sin," 

She  answered  low, 
"I  come  not  hither  to  enter  in. 

Nor  may  I  go." 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


g       "But  I   may  not  enter  there,"   she 
said; 

"For  I  must  go 
Across    the   gulf   where   the   guilty 
dead 

Lie  in  their  woe." 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"If  I  enter  heaven  I  may  not  speak 
My  soul's  desire 

For  them  that  are  lying  distraught 
and  weak 

In  flaming  fire." 

And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


"Should  I  be  nearer  Christ,"   she 
said, 

"By  pitying  less 
The  sinful  living  or  woeful  dead 

In  their  helplessness?" 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"Should  I  be  liker  Christ  were  I 
To  love  no  more 

The  loved,  who  in  their  anguish  lie 
Outside  the  door?" 

And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

L*      *****  * 

0!    .. 

'§^      "Should  I  be  liker,  nearer  Him, 
Forgetting  this — 

Singing  all  day  the  seraphim 
In  selfish  bliss?" 

And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

— New  Tork  Tribune. 


Sill?  MUBBU 


OE  massa  ob  de  sheepfol' 
Dat  guard  de  sheepfol'  bin, 
Look  out  in  de  gloomerin' 
meadows 
Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin — 
So  he  call  to  de  hirelin*  shepa'd. 
Is  my  sheep,  is  dey  all  come  in? 


1!;  TOg^     ^-41 


1 1 


m^^mmz 


Oh,  den  says  de  hirelin'  shepa'd. 
Dey's  some,  dey's  black  and  thin. 
And  some,  dey's  po'  ol*  wedda's. 
But  de  res*,  dey's  all  bning  in. 
But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in. 

Den  de  massa  ob  de  sheepfol' 
Dat  guard  de  sheepfol'  bin. 
Goes  down  in  de  gloomerin'  mead- 
ows, 
Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin — 
So  he  let  down  de  ba's  ob  de  sheep- 
fol', ^ 
Callin'  sof.  Come  in.  Come  in, 
Callin*  sof.  Come  in.  Come  in! 


Den  up  t'ro'  de  gloomerin*  mead- 
ows, 
T'ro'  de  col*  night  rain  and  win*. 
And  up  t*ro'  de  gloomerin*  rain-paf 
Whar  de  sleet  fa'  pie'cin'  thin, 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 
De  po*  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 

— Sarah  Pratt  McL.  Greene. 


Mortly  mtU 


X 


PRAY    Thee,    Lord,    that 

when  it  comes  to  me 
To    say    if    I    will    follow 
Truth  and  Thee, 


nO^H^O^ 


a  I 


;o^^so^ 


o 


Or  choose  instead  to  win  as  better 
worth 

My  pains,  some  cloying  recompense 
of  earth, 

Guard  me,  great  Father,  from  a 
hard-fought  field, 

Forespent  and  bruised,  upon  a  bat- 
tered shield. 

Home  to  obscure  endurance  to  be 
borne 

Rather  than  live  my  own  mean  gains 
to  scorn. 

Far  better  with  face  turned  towards 
the  goal. 

At  one  with  wisdom  and  my  own 
worn  soul. 

Than  ever  come  to  see  myself  pre- 
vail. 

When  to  succeed  at  last  is  but  to 
fail. 

Mean  ends  to  win  and  therewith  be 

content — 
Save  me  from  that!     Direct  Thou 

the  event 
As    suits   Thy   will;    where'er    the 

prizes  go. 
Grant  me  the  struggle,  that  my  soul 

may  grow. 

— Edward  Sandford  Martin. 


Wl(at3s^iB(Sireeh? 

GE  left  a  load  of  anthracite 
In  front  of  a  poor  widow's 
door. 
When  the  deep  snow,   frozen  and 
white. 
Wrapped     street     and     square, 
mountain  and  moor. 

That  was  his  deed ; 
He  did  it  well; 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
I  cannot  tell. 

Blessed    "in    his    basket    and    his 
store," 
In  sitting  down  and  rising  up ; 
When  more  he  got  he  gave  the  more. 
Withholding   not   the   crust   and 
cup. 

He  took  the  lead 

In  each  good  task. 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
I  did  not  ask. 

His  charity  was  like  the  snow. 

Soft,  white,  and  silent  in  its  fall; 
Not  like  the  noisy  winds  that  blow 
From  shivering  trees  the  leaves — 
a-pall 

For  flower  and  weed. 

Dropping  below. 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
The  poor  may  know. 


;o^^sos 


He   had   great   faith  in   loaves   of 
bread 
For   hungry  people,   young   and 
old; 
And  hope-inspired,   kind  words  he 
said 
To  those  he  sheltered  from  the 
cold. 

For  we  must  feed. 

As  well  as  pray. 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
I  cannot  say. 

SI      In  works  he  did  not  put  his  trust, 

His  faith  in  words  he  never  writ; 
He  loved  to  share  his  cup  and  crust 
With  all  mankind  who  needed  it. 
In  time  of  need 

A  friend  was  he. 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
He  told  not  me. 

He  put  his  trust  in  heaven,  and  he 
Worked    well    with    hand    and 
head; 
And  what  he  gave  in  charity 
Sweetened    his    sleep    and    daily 
bread. 

Let  us  take  heed. 

For  Hfe  is  brief. 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
"What  his  belief?" 


o^==^o^^oi 


27 


S^lt 


D«e€>oo 


III. 


Qimh 


G' 


HE  day  is  long,  and  the  day 
is  hard, 
We  are  tired  of  the  march 
and  of  keeping  guard; 
Tired  of  the  sense  of  a  fight  to  be 

won. 
Of  days  to  Hve  through  and  of  work 
to  be  done; 
M       Tired    of   ourselves    and   of   being 
Q  alone. 

Yet  all  the  while,  did  we  only  see. 
We  walk  in  the  Lord's  own  com- 

1  ^^^^' 

Y       We  fight,  but  'tis  He  who  nerves 

^  our  arm, 

^      He  turns  the  arrow  that  else  might 

harm. 
And  out  of  the  storm  He  brings  a 

calm; 
And  the  work  that  we  count  so  hard 

to  do. 
He  makes  it   easy,    for   He   works 

too; 
And  the  days  that  seem  long  to  live 

are  His, 
A  bit  of  His  bright  eternities ; 
So  close  to  our  need  His  helping  is. 

— Susan  Coolidge. 


;p^^^pj 


s^ 


© 


E  still,  just  now,  be  still! 
Something  thy  soul  has  never 
heard. 
Something  unknown  to  any  song 

of  bird. 
Something  unknown  to  wind,  or 

wave,  or  star, 
A  message   from  the   fatherland 
afar, 
That  with  sweet  joy  the  home-sick 

soul  shall  thrill, 
Cometh  to  thee  if  thou  canst  but  be 
still. 

Be  still,  just  now,  be  still ! 

And  know  that  I  that  speak,  I 

am  thy  God. 
The  lonely  vale  of  sorrow  I  have 

trod, 
I  know  it  all;  I  know  it  and  can 

feel     ^ 
Thy  spirit's  pain,  but  I  that  pain 
can  heal. 
Thou    never    yet    hast    proved    my 

wondrous  skill; 
Hush!  I  will  speak  if  thou  wilt  but 
be  still. 

Be  still,  just  now,  be  still ! 

There   comes   a    Presence,    very 
mild  and  sweet; 


;o^^30n 


q^ 


T^^o^    °>5^IH!f 


White   are   the   sandals    on   the 

noiseless  feet. 
It  is  the  Comforter  whom  Jesus 

sent 
To  teach  thee  all  the  words  He 

uttered  meant. 
The  waiting,  willing  spirit  He  doth 

fill; 
If  thou  would'st  hear  His  message, 

soul,  be  still. 


o 


nO^EZ^OS 


id 


iiOs 


sOiSl 


y 


}0 


If  4 


o 


IV. 

YING    eyes,    what    do    ye 
see? — 
I  see  the  love  that  holdeth 
me; 
The    look   that,    lighting,    leans    to 

bless, 
The  Httle  daily  tenderness; 

Smiles   without   words;    the    sweet, 

sure  sign 
Which  says  in  silence,  I  am  thine. 
Returning  feet  met  at  the  door — 
Alas,  for  those  which  run  no  more! 
Ah,  me,    for    lips    that    whispered, 

"Dear! 
^      Earth  is  all   heaven,    for  thou   art 

here." 
I  see  a  figure  like  a  stone; 
The  house  where  one  sits  on  alone. 
O,  God,  have  pity!   for  I  see 
The  desolated  needing  me. 

Dying  eyes,  what  do  ye  see? — 
I  see  the  Love  that  taketh  me. 
Loud  in  the  breakers,  soft  in  song. 
Ever  the  summons  calleth  strong. 
I  see  upon  an  unknown  strand 
The  signal  of  a  distant  Hand. 
The  leaf  is  light,  the  bud  is  out. 


-^^ 


Floods  of  May  colors  float  about. 
The  pulse  leaps  high,  the  heart  is 

young. 
The  sweetest  chimes  are  yet  unrung. 
My  bravest  deeds  I  never  did; 
And  struggling  with  the  coffin  Hd, 
Hopes,  dreams  and  joys,  and  happy 

tears 
Start,  throbbing,  to  live  down  the 

years. 

Almighty!  Listen!  I  am  dust. 
Yet  spirit  am  I;  so  I  trust. 
Let  come  what  may  of  life  or  death, 
I  trust  Thee  with  my  sinking  breath ; 
I  trust  Thee,  though  I  see  Thee  not 
In  heaven,  or  earth,  or  any  spot. 
I  trust  Thee  till  I  shall  know  why 
There's  one  to  live  and  one  to  die. 
I  trust  Thee  till  Thyself  shall  prove 
Thee  Lord  of  life  and  death  and 
love. 

— Elizabeth  Stewart  Phelps. 


Olljrtatua  Qlnnaoktor 


© 


ESIDE  the  dead  I  knelt  for 
prayer. 
And   felt   a  presence  as   I 
prayed ; 
Lo!  it  was  Jesus  standing  there. 
He  smiled:    "Be  not  afraid!" 


m^^Mui 


"Lord,  Thou  hast  conquered  death, 
we  know; 

Restore  again  to  life,"  I  said, 
"This  one  who  died  an  hour  ago." 

He  smiled:   "She  is  not  dead!" 

"Asleep,  then,  as  Thyself  didst  say. 

Yet  Thou  canst  lift  the  lids  that 

keep 

Her  prisoned  eyes  from  ours  away." 

He     smiled:      "She     doth     not 

sleep!" 

"Nay,  then,  tho'  haply  she  do  wake. 
And  look  upon  some  fairer  dawn. 

Restore  her  to  our  hearts  that  ache." 
He  smiled:    "She  is  not  gone!" 

"Alas!  Too  well  we  know  our  loss. 
Nor  hope  again  our  joy  to  touch 

Until  the  stream  of  death  we  cross." 
He  smiled:    "There  is  no  such!" 

"Yet  our  beloved  seem  so  far. 
The  while  we  yearn  to  feel  them 
near. 

Albeit  with  Thee  we  trust  they  are." 
He  smiled:   "And  I  am  here." 

"Dear  Lord,  how  shall  we  know 
that  they 
Still  walk   unseen   with  us   and 
Thee, 
Nor  sleep,  nor  wander  far  away?" 
He  smiled:    "Abide  in  me!" 

— Rossiter  Raymond. 


^o^^so^ 


SB  (Si 


o 


IT  seemeth  such  a  little  way 
to  me 
Across  to  that  strange  coun- 
try, the  Beyond, 
And   yet    not    strange,    for   it    has 
grown  to  be 
The  home  of  those  of  whom  I  am 
so  fond. 
They    make   it   seem   familiar   and 

most  dear. 
As  journeying  friends  bring  distant 
countries  near. 


So  close  it  lies  that  when  my  sight 
is  clear 
I  think  I  see  the  gleaming  strand. 
^      I   know,   I   feel   that  those  who've 
gone  from  here 
Come  near  enough  to  touch  my 
hand. 
I  often  think  but  for  our  veiled  eyes 
We  should  find  Heaven  right  'round 
us  lies. 

I   cannot  make  it  seem   a   day  to 

dread 
When  from  this  dear  earth  I  shall 

journey  out 
To  that  still  dearer  country  of  the 

dead 


And  join  the  lost  ones  so  long 

dreamed  about. 
I  love  this  world,  yet  shall  I  love 

to  go 
And  meet  the  friends  who  wait  for 

me,  I  know. 

And  so  for  me  there  is  no  sting  to 
death. 
And  so  the  grave  has  lost  its  vic- 
tory. 
It    is    but    crossing,    with    abated 
breath 
And  white,  set  face,  a  little  strip 
of  sea. 
To  find  the  loved  ones  waiting  on 

the  shore. 
More  beautiful,  more  precious  than 
before. 

—Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 


Atuag 


X 


CANNOT  say,  and  I  will 

not  say 
That  he  is  dead — he  is  just 
away! 


With  a  cheery  smile  and  a  wave  of 

the  hand 
He  has  wandered  into  an  unknown 

land. 


^I"  llfi^llL-A-         „A.-jJt*'^klii 


And  left  us  dreaming  how  very  fair 
It  needs  must  be,  since  he  Hngers 
there. 

And  you — O  you — ^who  the  wildest 

yearn 
For  the  old-time  step  and  the  glad 

return — 

Think  of  him  faring  on,  as  dear 
In  the  love  of  There  as  the  love  of 
Here. 

And  loyal  still,  as  he  gave  the  blows 
^       Of  his  warrior  strength  to  his  coun- 
try's foes — 

Mild  and  gentle,  as  he  was  brave — 
When  the  sweetest  love  of  his  life 
he  gave 


o 


To  simple  things:  Where  the  violets 

grew. 
Pure  as  the  eyes  they  were  likened 

to. 

The    touches    of    his    hands    have 

strayed 
As    reverently    as    the    lips    have 

prayed ; 

When  the  little  brown  thrush  that 
harshly  chirred 

Was  dear  to  him  as  the  mocking- 
bird; 


l&i!] 


I)  «»€>«> 


And  he  pitied  as  much  as  a  man  in 

pain 
A  writhing  honey-bee  wet  with  rain. 

Think  of  him  still  the  same,  I  say ; 
He  is  not  dead — ^he  is  just  away! 
—Riley. 


[AYING  "There  is  no  hope," 
he  stepped 
A  little  from  our  side  and 
passed 
To  hope  eternal.    At  the  last 
Crying  "There  is  no  rest,"  he  slept 

A  sweeter  spirit  ne'er  drew  breath; 
Strange  grew  the  chill  upon  the 
air. 
But    as     he     murmured    "This   is 
death," 
Lo!     life    itself    did    meet    him 
there. 

He  loved  the  will;  he  did  the  deed; 
Such  love  shall  live;  such  doubt 
is  dust; 
He  served  the  truth;  he  missed  the 
creed. 
Trust  him  to  God.    Dear  is  the 
trust 

— Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


\r^>^ 


^ir^HEN  she  reached  the  gates 
fif  of  the  Heavenly  City, 

She  turned  in  pity 
Whence  she  had  fled; 
Forgetting  the  gleam  of  her  glad 
to-morrow. 
She  saw  the  sorrow 
For  one  just  dead. 
She  could  not  hear  the  song  celes- 
tial, 
The  cry  terrestrial 
Had  closed  her  ears ; 
She  could  not  see  through  the  shin- 
ing portal. 
For  eyes  still  mortal 
And  blind  with  tears. 

She  sighed,  "Could  we  go  to  those 
left  lonely. 
Ah,  could  we  only 
But  speak  one  word! 
How  all  life's  grief  and  its  heavy 
burden 
Might  turn  to  guerdon. 
Could  we  be  heard. 
Could  we  but  say  to  the  heavy- 
hearted 
In  anguish  parted 
From  all  most  dear. 


Mb 


lo^^ao; 


o^^o^^o; 


'Fear  not,  beloved,  I  could  not  leave 
thee, 
'Twould  too  much  grieve  me, 
I  still  am  here.* 

"Not   in   the    farthest,   tlie   highest 
heaven 
To  mortals  given 
Can  we  forget; 
For  those  whom  we  love,  on  radiant 
faces, 
In  heavenly  places. 
The  tears  are  wet ; 
And  we  who  on  earth  have  gar- 
nered treasure. 
Beyond  all  measure 
Return  to  earth; 
Drawn  by  the  love  that  held  and 
IJl  bound  us 

Since  first  it  found  us. 
And  gave  Hfe  worth. 

'Think  not  that  the  river  of  death 
dull  streaming 
Drowns  all  our  dreaming. 
Its  waves  beneath, 
Nor  that  in  the  dim  and  shadowy 
valley 
There  ever  rally 
The  waves  of  Lethe. 
Think  not  that  the  grave  has  power 
to  sever 
True  hearts  forever. 


5^ 


i^^mi 


26304 


Or  that  its  sting 
Is   all   for   the   ones   left   broken- 
hearted 
By  those  who've  parted 
On  angel  wing. 

"The  sting  of  death  is  the  loves  that 
doubt  us 
And  try  without  us 
Their  load  to  bear ; 
As  if,  being  dead,  we  should  no 
more  love  them 
Or  bend  above  them 
Their  tears  to  share ; 
Until,   at  last,   by  their  doubting 
driven. 
We  turn  to  heaven 
To  find  relief. 
Where  a  thousand  years  like  a  day 
are  fleeting 
And  loved  ones  meeting. 
Forget  their  grief." 

— Ellis  Meredith. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REG'C-.-v.  :  5P.-,  =  -.  r;; 


A     000  738  015     7 


^L3o^ 


